-7M 




Class _£3^5&5 
CopyrightN - i^T &O _ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



An Old Man's Musings 

and 

Other Verses 

By 
William Hathorn Mills 

Published by the Author 



THE WAYSIDE PRESS 

Los Angeles, Califorpia 

1920 

Copyright 



I 



©CH564523 



\^ 



Contents 



Page 

Musings 5 

De Senectute 6 

Irrequieta Quies 7 

Aequam Memento 8 

Straight 9 

Gentleship 10 

A Training School 12 

Sunt Lacrimae Rerum 13 

Beyond the Veil 14 

The Valley of Baca 16 

Discipline 17 

Amplius 19 

Sublimius 20 

Avalon 21 

Words 22 

A Pilgrim's Progress 23 

A Mighty Monosyllable 24 

The Mystery of Being 25 

Euge : 27 

Miscella 28 

Kinship 29 

A Cameo 30 

Vates Sacer 31 

Posies 32 

Mirrors 35 

Epigrammata Quaedam 36 

Old-Time Apothegms 38 



Contents 



Page 
Horatiana 39 



Od. I. 2 

I. 9. 

I. 11. 

I. 17. 

I. 18. 

I. 21. 

I. 22. 

I. 30. 

I. 6. 

I. 8. 

I. 9. 

I. 10. 

I. 16. 

I. 2. 

I. 13. 

I. 18. 

I. 22. 

I. 23. 

I. 26. 

V. 12. 



40 
42 
43 
44 
45 
46 
47 
48 
48 
49 
50 
51 
52 
54 
55 
56 
57 
58 
59 
60 



Musings 



De Senectute 

WHAT are the things, the lessons, which old age 
Teaches a man, when he has come to it? 
Three things, at least; and he need be no sage 
To know them; they are learnt by native wit. 

First tolerance — tolerance of the infirmities 
To which all flesh is heir, of aims and views 

Not his, of youth's impetuosities; 

For each and all of these he finds excuse. 

This tolerance is not careless unconcern, 

Not weak assent to things he scorns and hates; 

It's patient hope that ignorance may learn; 

For better things he works and, hoping, waits. 

Next level-mindedness. "Naught in excess" 
Is Nature's word to him; he does his best, 

Aims at the golden mean, desires success, 
But, missing it, is not over-much depressed. 

Life, he has seen, has many ups and downs, 
But mostly strikes an average on the whole; 

And so he sets its smiles against its frowns, 
And keeps unswayed the balance of his soul. 

Lastly submission to the Eternal Will; 

He slighted it, maybe he fought it, when 
His life was young within him; now the still 

Small Voice speaks to him, and he says Amen. 

He knows that death cannot be far away, 
Ponders its mystery, and, in the light 

Shed on it by the Resurrection Day, 

Sees in its witness grace no less than might. 

It bids him realize God's omnipotence; 

It bids him realize also God's intent 
To bring us thro' this world of time and sense 

To the eternal world, and bows consent. 

Six 



Irrequieta Quies 

REST is not idleness; there's rest in work, 
In quiet industry; 
A thousand demons of unrest may lurk 
In sloth and lethargy. 

Labour there is, of course, whose moil and toil 

Makes soul and body faint; 
Aye, and there is the work that seeks to foil 

The work of seer and saint. 

These are not restful labours, nor are these 

The work we have to do; 
We must be busy as the busy bees, 

If peace we would ensue. 

Add to such industry the charities, 

Which serve our brethren's need; 
These crown our work; our very ministries 

Bring peace and rest indeed. 

The idler is a weary soul, to whom 

Rest is a thing unkent; 
Satan employs him, and he earns a doom 

Of restless discontent. 



Seven 



Aequam Memento 



ONCE, fired by thoughts of high success, 
I cherished dreams of wealth and fame, 
And learnt to know the bitterness 
Of disappointed hope and aim. 

Now, by a life's experience taught, 
I wait to see what time will bring, 

Not downcast, but expecting naught 
Of any man or any thing. 

That's to throw up the game of life; 

Yes; but is gaming life's intent, 
Life's meaning? Anyhow, rid of strife 

And disappointments, I'm content. 

I keep my head, or do my best 
To keep it; bear what bear I must; 

Work as I may; as for the rest — 

Well, Providence has the rest in trust. 

Keep your mind, said the Roman bard, 

Level, or in prosperity, 
Or when life's path is steep and hard; 

Tough work, but good philosophy! 



Eight 



Straight 

IF you would hit the waiting nail 
Upon the head, and never fail, 
Aim straight. 

If you would keep your goal in sight, 
And, when ways differ, choose the right, 
See straight. 

If you would win success, that's worth 
The name, on this phantasmal earth, 
Run straight. 

If you would gain the trust and love 
Of those with whom you work and move, 
Live straight. 

If from earth's shadows you would rise 
To the clear light of Paradise, 

Climb straight. 



Nin* 



Gentleship 

WHO is a gentleman? 
Is he a man whose pedigree 
Is as long as the length of a poplar tree? 

Is he a gentleman? 
That is a prima facie 
Sense of the word, but a pedigree 
Doesn't make a gentleman. 

Is he a man who bears a name 

Set by forbears on the scroll of fame? 

Is he a gentleman? 
Yes, if he lives up to its claim; 
If not, no title, no rank, no name, 

Can make him a gentleman. 

Is he a man who has a right 
To bear a coat of arms — a quite 

Easily won right now? 
That's heralds' law; whether a soul, 
Thus licensed, is on true honour's roll 

It does not, and cannot, show. 

Smart dress, fine jewels, wealth — do they 
Set on a man the grand cachet, 

The stamp, of a gentleman? 
A churl may be smart, and have money-bags; 
And a man may be poor and clothed in rags, 

And still be a gentleman. 

A gentleman is a man who is 
Gentle to all about him — this 

Is the test of a gentleman. 
If he isn't gentle, not noble birth, 
Not titles, not all the gold on earth, 

Can make him a gentleman. 



Ten 



:3r; 



This gentleness is of sympathy 
With weaker souls — in it you see 

The heart of a gentleman. 
It makes, with the graces of loyalty, 
Simplicity, generosity, 

The perfect gentleman. 

^H 
The poet is born; to learn his art 
You must have within you the poet's heart — 

His inborn wit and ken. 
Thus humblest souls, with an inborn gift 
Of gentleness, by this grace uplift, 

Are Nature's gentlemen. 



m 






<?• 






-•.v. I 






Eleven 



A Training-School 



WHY are we born into this life 
This world of pain and care, 
Where troubles vex us and where strife 
Is rampant everywhere? 

Two things at least are plain to sight, 

For all who will to see: 
Two truths that, realized, throw light 

Upon the mystery. 

One is that we are born to work, 

To keep our garden drest; 
If difficulties make us shirk, 

We are not worthy rest. 

Rest is the prize of work well done — 
Work done with zeal and zest, 

Of effort till success is won; 
The idler cannot rest. 

Again, what means the instinctive tie, 

The bond of common blood, 
But that men are one family, 

One blood-bound brotherhood? 

Cain slew his brother, and thereby 
Brought jealous passions in; 

Aye, but all true humanity 
Cries out against that sin. 

Ambitious wars, trade-jealousies, 

Self-seeking politics, 
The grafter's game of grab — at these 

The true world-conscience kicks. 

Life is, in brief, a training-school; 

It trains to energy, 
And, if men learn its golden rule, 

To kindly sympathy. 



Twelve 



Sunt Lacrimae Rerum 

SCULPTURED upon a temple-wall, 
Where Dido ruled the Libyan strand, 
The Trojan prince astonished scanned 
The story of his country's fall. 

"Here, even here, is sympathy 

With Troy," he cried; "these pictured tears 

Call us to put aside all fears, 
And promise us hospitality." 

The oneness of humanity — 

That was the truth he saw in part; 
It's ours to lay that truth to heart, 

And fear to break that unity. 

Cain broke it, and the curse of Cain 
Awaits all souls who stir up strife, 
And shed the blood, which is the life, 

For pride of place or selfish gain. 

Against the curse a blessing stands — 
The blessing won by souls who fight 
In the defence of Truth and Right, 

With loyal hearts and willing hands. 

Aye, and it rests on those who make 
The cause of suffering souls their care: 
Who serve the poor and weak, and bear 

Burdens of others, for love's sake. 

"War," said a soldier once, "is hell," 

And yet he fought for liberty; 

And they who fight for unity, 
And what it means and claims, do well. 

Words may mean much or little; three 
Are charged with meaning high and broad — 
These sign-posts on the upward road, 

Unity, Sympathy, Charity. 



Thirteen 



Beyond the Veil 



HAVE they no thought for us, no care— 
The dear ones who have gone before? 
Are they incurious how we fare? 
Is all forgot that was of yore? 

Ah no; a stream of sympathy 

Runs thro' Creation's mighty whole — 

A limitless telepathy, 

That links for ever soul to soul. 

Why, even of old the Roman bard 
Knew this, who with his poet's ken 

Saw how the dead still have regard 
To all the things of mortal men: 

Telling how old Anchises' shade 
Watched o'er Aeneas' wander-years: 

How for his weal he yearned, and made 
His own the wanderer's hopes and fears. 

Thus too, by love and pity moved, 
From out their sphere beyond the veil 

May friends, true-hearted souls we loved 
On earth, reach after us, nor fail. 

We cannot see, we cannot hear, 

Thoro' the intervening screen; 
They can, and still they hold us dear; 

Still they remember what has been. 

And as they prayed for us of old, 
And we for them, so pray they yet, 

So pray we; otherwise love were cold, 
And hearts were learning to forget. 

They cannot shape our destinies, 
And yet from them in very deed 

May come the thoughts that make us wise, 
Or comfort us, in time of need. 

Fourteen 



Their influence, all unfelt, unseen, 

May shield us from some threatened blow- 
May, as a barrier, stand between 
Us and the onset of some foe. 

Death, thou canst slay this body; thou 
Canst take our dear ones from our sight; 

But break our fellowship? That, we trow, 
World-conqueror, is beyond thy might. 



Fifteen 



The Valley of Baca 

ALL things are charged with tears. Ah, why? 
Because the life we live on earth 
Is all a strange complexity 

Of pain and pleasure, grief and mirth. 

It's mortal life, and yet has gleams 

In it of immortality; 
It's fallen life, and yet has dreams 

Of Eden and recovery. 

All Nature suffered by the Fall 
That banished man from Paradise; 

Evil came in, and therefore all 

Creation, anguished, groans and sighs. 

Sin's discords marred earth's harmonies, 

And, fell as blasts of poisonous breath, 
Came strife, disease, disorder, lies, 

And, overshadowing all things, death. 
I ' i i 

That's why all things have tears in them — 

Tears moved by suffering, failure, loss; 
That's why the Babe of Bethlehem 

Was born to death upon the Cross. 

Yes, but that death waved back the sword 
That barred the gates of Paradise; 

The guardian cherubs knew their Lord, 
And welcomed Him in glad surprise. 

For us He opened out the way 

To where death has no empery, 
Where light and life and love hold sway, 

And tears are wiped from every eye. 



Sixteen 



Discipline 

i i\\T HOM the gods love, die young," 'tis said 

VV What does that mean? Is it that life 
Is but a curse, and that the dead 

Are blest as freed from toil and strife? 

That's what the saying means, I guess; 

But is it true? For is not life 
A training school for blessedness? 

And is not peace born out of strife? 

The world is full of evil — yes; 

And life has many a care and pain; 
Wars of ambition bring distress 

On nations; toilers toil in vain. 

But not all strife is evil strife; 

Life has its joys as well as woes; 
Pain may be as the surgeon's knife; 

To strength thro' toil the toiler grows. 

"Strive," said the Christ, "to enter in 
By the strait gate"— aye, "agonize"; 

There's the good fight— the fight with sin— 
And life eternal is the prize. 

Failures may open out the way 

For high success; the difficulties 
Which thwart our hopes, and vex us, may 

Be priceless blessings in disguise. 

Life is a trial-time; each test 

Tries us to brace our energies. 
Battling with evil, doing our best, 

Nor losing heart, we win the prize. 



Seventeen 



Strugglings in weariness of heart: 

The agony of self-sacrifice — 
These shape the soul to bear its part 

In the fair life of Paradise. 

Some tender souls there are who need 
Little of this world's discipline; 

Such souls God's angels haste to lead 
Back to the world which knows no sin. 



Eighteen 



Amplius 



A FAMOUS painter looked upon 
A student's work, and wrote thereon 
Just Amplius. 

"Work out your visions, your designs," 
It said, "on broader, ampler lines" — 
That Amplius. 

"Lengthen thy cords," the prophet cried; 
"Make wide thy bounds, and yet more wide' 
'Twas Amplius. 

We too, to meet our spirit's need, 
Should on our work, our aims, our creed, 
Write Amplius. 

For hearts are selfish, narrow, cold, 
Till they have learnt the secret told 
By Amplius. 

"Get beyond self, get beyond all 
Self-seeking narrowness," is the call 
Of Amplius. 

"Think thoughts, do deeds, of charity, 
Sympathy, generosity," 

Says Amplius. 

It's ours, in answer to that cry, 
To make our hearts and lives reply, 
"Aye, Amplius." 

So shall we come to realize 
The truth of things in clearer wise, 
And Amplius. 

So shall we make our life's design 
Copy more nearly the Divine; 

That's Amplius. 



Nineteen 



o 



Sublimius 

F all the mottoes, which a man 
Can choose, there is none better than 
Sublimius. 



The youth who clomb the mountain side 
Crying Excelsior! should have cried 
Sublimius! 

"Taller" was what he said, but his 
Idea was "Higher up" — that is 
Sublimius. 

It brings hard work, for it implies 
Ascent; by difficult steps we rise 
Sublimius. 

Yes, but it's worth it all the time; 
We mount to happiness as we climb 
Sublimius. 

You hear as it were a noble chord 
Of solemn music in that word, 
Sublimius. 

High purpose, scorn of self and sin, 
Patient endeavour, meet within 
Sublimius. 

It says what "Sursum Corda" says, 
And adds, "Lift up your lives always 
Sublimius." 

Labour is prayer; aye, and it's praise; 
"Work out your aspirations" says 
Sublimius. 

It means the path of duty trod — 
The path which leads, as up to God, 
Sublimius. 

Twenty 



Avalon 

4 IT AMBKIN and wolf"— that is tame beasts and 

i-^i wild— 
"Shall dwell together, and a little child 
Shall lead them" — this, said Judah's seer, shall be 
In the Messiah's reign of equity. 

Not yet is that new order consummate; 
Not yet is this world rid of strife and hate; 
Wild beasts still ravin for their prey, and still 
Men, wilder than wild beasts, work death and ill. 

Yet there's a ministry of leading on, 

Which children serve, unto an Avalon 

Of peace — their own small world of shows and 

plays — 
Where tired old souls may rest, e'en nowadays. 

Led by a little child, sharing its joys, 
Its interests, its fancies, its employs, 
Souls, weary of life's war, find a surcease 
From the long agony, and are at peace. 

And it may be that, when stern punishment 
Has purged brute souls, Heaven's after-instrument 
Of discipline will be — not judgment's rod, 
But — hands of children, leading them to God. 



Twenty-one 



Words 



NOT words but deeds — 'tis an old tale — 
Yet words have worth and use; 
True words are gospels; if they fail, 
'Tis ears that need excuse. 

"Words, idle words," folk say, and yet 

Words may be things that do; 
"Up, Guards, and at 'em" sped the onset 

That settled Waterloo. 

"Noblesse oblige" — a phrase — may mean 

Devotion unto death; 
Words may be fire — aye, words have been 

As wafts of heavenly breath. 

Rightly we blame the man whose tongue 

Does all he cares to do; 
But what of him whose words mean strong 

Purpose and effort too? 

Rightly again we blame the man 

Who speaks to curse or lie; 
Speech that is used for lie or ban 

Savours of blasphemy. 

Mere words, bad words — these are as naught, 

Or, worse, as injury; 
But words that echo gracious thought 

Have a true ministry. 

But ears must hear; in vain the sower 

Sows seed in barren earth; 
Dull hearts rob eloquence of its power, 

And make speech nothing worth. 

Who scorn good words scorn seeds of Truth, 

And miss her fruits thereby; 
They had — and this shall be their ruth — 

Their opportunity. 

Twenty-two 



A Pilgrim's Progress 

DEATH is the door to life— to that large life 
That lies beyond the grave: the life wherein 
Souls are delivered from earth's ceaseless strife, 

And cleansed by purgatorial discipline: 
The life that, as aeonian, stage by stage 
Lifts souls, that will, to man's true heritage. 

Aeonian life — that is, a life that grows 
Thro' ages to the fulness of its height; 

Each life-age has its death, to mark its close, 
And usher in an age of higher light; 

And souls rise thro' these stages of ascent 

Just as God calls them, and their wills consent. 

Man's heritage — what is it? God designed 
That man should be to Him a very son, 

To stand before His Face: to know His mind, 
And do His bidding gladly and anon. 

Man is an heir of Heaven, and Heaven is still 

Open to every soul that does God's will. 

Ah, if the prodigal will but return, 

He yet may win back to his lost estate; 

The vision of God, Godlikeness, life eterne, 

Await him, beckon him home thro' mercy's gate: 

Return may mean a weary pilgrimage, 

And long; yet may he make it, stage by stage. 



Twenty-three 



A Mighty Monosyllable 

LOVE — what is love? A love there is, 
So called, that is of selfishness; 
True love has naught to do with this; 

It seeks — not blessing, but — to bless; 
With faith and hope on either side, 
It leads the graces that abide. 

Yes, that is love — the charity, 
That is a temper of God's heart, 

Requickened in all souls that die 
To self, and choose the better part; 

Self-love spells death; love cannot die; 

Its life is of eternity. 

Its name, a monosyllable: 

Itself unutterably great, 
Love is of Heaven, as lust of hell; 

It masters self, and conquers hate; 
The Hebrew Tetragrammaton 
And it, for God is Love, are one. 



Twenty-four 



The Mystery of Being 

WHAT man was, what he is, what he 
May be — who has not sought 
To solve the' threefold mystery 
Of being, of will, of thought? 

Seers have caught mirrored gleams of Truth 

In Revelation's light; 
But did they see the very Sooth, 

And understand the sight? 

That faithful souls may come to be 

True children of the Lord 
We know from Christ's own lips, and we 

Can rest upon His word. 

But there were those about His path — 

As Scribe and Pharisee — 
To whom He said, in righteous wrath, 

"Children of hell are ye." 

Is man a complex entity — 

Part devilish, part divine, 
Part brute — wherein perversity 

Has marred a great design? 

In body to the brutes akin, 

He shares their life in part; 
But Satan, save thro' man's own sin, 

Has no place in his" heart. 

Into man's nature at his birth 

God breathed two lives — so runs 
The record — one, the life of earth, 

The other, of His sons. 

And, had not his self-will transgressed 

The Father's single ban, 
Man had grown up, blessing and blest, 

Unto the perfect man. 

Twenty-five 



'Twas selfishness brought down a curse, 

By opening hearts to sin; 
Man had free choice; he chose the worse, 

And Satan entered in. 

And still he enters every heart 

Ruled by self-will, and still, 
Playing in it the Tempter's part, 

Betrays it into ill. 

Aye, and there are who, giving place 

To Satan, come to be 
Dehumanized— too brute, too base, 

To be of the family. 

Yet souls have that in them which can 

Resist the Evil One; 
The life of God is in each man, 

And God claims him as son. 

Still lies before him the Great Choice; 

Still penitence finds grace; 
Aye, and it makes God's heart rejoice 

When sinners seek His Face. 

No soul need be a brute; no soul 

Need be a devil's child; 
The Father's house is our true goal — 

The home of the undefiled. 

'Twixt the old Paradise and new 

A weary desert lies; 
Aye, but thro' it pure souls and true 

Win to the Heavenlies. 



Twenty-six 



Euge 

GOD and my own right hand — the cry 
Echoes Saint George's creed — 
Tis Faith and Work in harmony, 
God's strength behind man's deed. 

God first — no work can be good work 

But what His will commands; 
Man next — God helps no souls who shirk 

Tasks that lie to their hands. 

Life is no day of idleness, 

Or sin; its span is given 
For work, for acts of righteousness, 

For Teachings after Heaven. 

Duty to God, duty to man — 

That's life's true industry; 
Two words sum up its scope and plan — 

Holiness, Charity. 

Who make this royal rule their own, 

And shape their lives thereon, 
Shall win, before the Great White Throne, 

The Master's kind "Well done." 



Twenty -seven 



Miscella 



Kinship 

STAND by your own; stand by 
Your kith and kin; 
Stand by the family, 

Thro' thick and thin; 
Stand up for its good name; 

It's your name too; 
Never let taint of shame 
Hurt it thro' you. 

If fortune seems to frown, 

And things go ill 
With them, stand by your own; 

Hold to them still 
Keep kinship's claim in mind, 

Remembering 
This — that "akin" and "kind" 

Mean the same thing. 

You may not turn your face 

From any soul 
That needs and asks your grace — 

Your pity's dole. 
To flout such were a sin, 

But the blood-call — 
The cry of kith and kin — 

Ranks first of all. 

Traitors, who love a lie, 

For profit's sake 
Break other ties; this tie 

They cannot break. 
Nothing, All Nature saith, 

Snaps the blood-bond; 
It holds thro's life to death, 

Aye, and beyond. 



Twenty-nine 



A Cameo 

A BOY'S verse, dedicate years ago 
To her, whose tender sympathy- 
Mothered him — 'tis a cameo, 
Clear-cut as in chalcedony. 

A picture but in words? Well, yes; 

And yet what carver's artistry 
Could make this vision of loveliness 

More present to our spirit's eye? 

Her "hyacinth hair," her "classic face," 
Her "Naiad airs," the charm that gives 

Her form its spiritual grace — 
All this we see, and for us she lives: 

Lives as they lived in breathing bronze, 
Or marble, whom the golden age 

Of sculptors imaged — the mighty ones 
Of mythic cult and epic page. 

Art-gems there are that are for the few, 
But, thanks to Edgar Allen Poe, 

No matter where they be, or who, 
All souls may see this cameo. 



Thirty 



Vates Sacer 



THE poet is born, not made; aye, and yet he 
Must make himself, if poet he is to be: 
Must learn the secrets of the poet's art: 
Must find his way to the great human heart: 
Must see in fragrant flower and glittering star 
Mirrored reflections of the things that are: 
Must hear the solemn music of the spheres, 
And echo its harmonies to duller ears: 
Must use all Nature as a parable, 
Telling what else were all ineffable. 
No "frenzy fine," no sweep of "rolling eye," 
Will make an expert in this alchemy. 
The poet by birth to reach majority 
Must nurse and train his native faculty; 
Poetic genius in embryo 
Is his, but he must rear and make it grow. 
It needs self-knowledge and self-discipline 
To make his heart drink in the Breath divine. 
It needs the learner's patient industry 
To store his mind with language pure and high. 
Words noble must he seek for noble thought, 
Nor rest content with less than that he sought: 
Must file and chasten, alter and erase, 
Till the true word at last finds its true place. 
The mighty bards of Hellas and of Rome 
Must beckon him to the heights whereto they clomb; 
Milton and Dante too must point his aim 
Above the petty lust of vulgar fame. 
To lift men's hearts, to make them see and feel 
True Beauty — its example and appeal — 
That is the poet's work — the enterprise 
Which is at once his calling and its prize. 
So and so only shall he train his soul 
To climb Parnassus' peak — the poet's goal. 
So and so only shall he make his rime 
A thing to conquer death, and outlive Time. 



Thirty -one 



Posies 

POETRY is the language of the soul — 
Its thoughts made utterance by the spirit's 
breath; 
To reach the great world-heart — that is its goal; 
Its themes — the things that count in life and 
death. 

* * * * 

Carols of birds, the thunder's echoing roll, 

The rivulet's laugh, the South Wind's quiet sigh, 
The still small voice that thrilled the prophet's soul, 

All meet in that which men call Poetry. 

* * * * 

In this phantasmal world, which men count home, 
We see but outward shows, and call them real; 

To the true bard, as to the seer, there come 
Visions of that which IS — of the ideal. 

* * * * 

She came — the Spirit eterne of Poetry — 

Into this order of created things 
To find interpreters, and voice thereby 

To human ears the message that She brings; 
And hearts are ever answering to her call, 
But only one small bird has heard it all. 

* * * * 

Poetry, Music, and the painter's art, 

Aye, and the sculptor's, are a harmony 
Of revelations, imaging to the heart 

The Beauty that is of Eternity. 

* * * * 

Poetry is the workmanship whereby 

The inspirations of immortal breath 
Are fashioned into song — a symphony 

Of words, whose echoes ring thro' life and death. 

* * * * 

Sevenfold as the voice of Music 

Is the voice of Poetry, 
Ranging from the stately Epic 

Thirty-two 



To the mirth of Comedy; 
But its best loved note is Lyric, 
Sweet Euterpe's specialty. 

* * -* * 

When Poetry came to this Babylon, 
She found a babel of discordant cries; 

She called in Music, and with her anon 
Resolved the discords into harmonies. 

So Arcady took birth. Ah! Well-a-day! 

That souls who will not hear brawl on for aye! 

* * * * 

A Poem is of heaven and earth; its soul 
Is of the breath divine; its symmetry 

Is of the poet; bowing to the control 

Of rhythm and rime he shapes his artistry, 

Until the thing stands forth a perfect Whole- 
Thought clothed in words that match it— Poetry. 



Poesy is a craft; a breath divine 
Must be its vital spark, but artistry 

Must shape its fancies, and the outward sign 
Must match the inward grace in dignity. 

Pure words and noble lend verse majesty; 

Balance and pattern give it symmetry. 



The Arts are sisters; Poetry is kin 
To Music, kin too to the painter's art; 

Thus each interprets each, and thus all win 
Alike their triumphs as they touch the heart. 



Poetry is creation, it must call 

That into being which were elsewise naught; 
He who would fashion it needs first of all 

The inspiration of a noble thought; 
This won, his art must image it — must give 
It substance — shaped in words that breathe and live. 

Thirty-three 



Beauty — the beauty that is goodness too, 
For both are of one stock — whatever things 

Are fair and noble, innocent and true — 
Of beauty such as this the poet sings. 

He sees a vision beckoning souls to rise, 

And points their hopes and longings to the skies. 

* * * * 

Co-operant in one great design, 
Music and Poetry combine 

To lift man's heart and mind; 
It is not poetry, it is 
Not music, that comes short of this; 

It is but noise and wind. 

* * * * 

Music and Poetry are one at heart — 

Two bodies, but one soul; 
Together, as each plays its proper part, 

They make a perfect Whole. 

# * * * 

They have their own trench-songs — the men 
Who Jace the Hun, now and again 

Varied by joke or story; 
But, when they stand affronting death, 
And less dour souls might hold their breath, 

The Scots sing "Annie Laurie." 

# * * * 

Strained nerves — what helps them in the tense 
Pause of expectance or suspense, 

When battle is at hand? 
Ah then, the trenches' length along, 
You'll hear the lilt of some old home-song, 

That speaks of Motherland. 



Thirty-four 



Mirrors 

HERE in enigma and in mystery 
We see and hear what lies beyond the veil, 
Now in some sunset's mystic imagery, 

Now in the melody of the nightingale; 
For Nature is a mirror, broken in part, 
Yet flashing gleams of truth upon the heart. 
* * * * 

"Draw up the blind, friends, and let in the light"- 
So spake the dying seeker after Truth; 

Death answered, and flung open to his sight 
The gates of light ideal — of God's own Sooth. 



In Nature's mirrors here we see 

The mysteries of Eternity; 

And we may mirror that which lies 

Beyond their ken to mortal eyes: 

May train our hearts to be in sooth 

Reflectors of eternal Truth. 

For, as we gaze with open face 

Upon the glory of God's grace, 

It takes us, shapes us, stamps on us 

The image of itself; and thus 

Makes hearts and lives reflect to sight 

The beauty of the Infinite. 

Cf. 1 Cor. XIII. 12. 2 Cor. III. 18. 



Thirty-five 



Epigrammata Quaedam 
Life 

LIFE is existence, manifest 
In its activities: 
A spiritual thing expressed 

In sacramental wise. 
Its tenements are the outward sign: 
Itself, a spark of fire divine. 

* * * * 

The Gospel story tells us what 

Life — perfect life — must be; 

It's being, and it's doing, that 

Which is of Charity. 

* * * * 

Life is a spring of energy; 

It's being, and it's doing; 
And, as the 3oing, so must be 

The being — joy or ruing. 



The Breath of Lives. Gen. 2, 7.) 

What is man's life? A breath; 

It breathes once, and is gone; 
Yes, but man's spirit outlives death; 

That breath breathes on. 



Facilis Descensus 

The Roman bards apparently 

Led off with forms of Comedy — 

The rude Fescennine verse, whose chaff 

And jokes were sung to raise a laugh — 



Thirty-six 



Which shows that in world-history 

There was a human infancy; 

For childhood's tastes are gastronomic, 

And, when not gastronomic, comic. 

That's natural enough, for both 

Tastes answer to the laws of growth. 

But what if any later age 

Falls back to life's infantile stage, 

And, proudly posing as adult, 

Yet makes Thalia's sock its cult, 

And turns up its aesthetic nose 

At everything but jokes and shows? 

So fell Old Rome degenerate — 

A warning never out of date 

To childish man and childish State. 



Thirty-seven 



Old-Time Apothegms 

<<"T>RING back your shield or be brought back 

D upon your shield, my son" — 
So Spartan mothers sent their sons to war; so wars 
were won. 

That is the worst corruption which corrupts that 

which is best; 
That, which was best, corrupted is of all things rot- 

tenest. 
So fallen Lucifer became of fiends the fiendliest; 
So fallen saints too may become of sinners sinfullest. 

When men desert their senses, when they cast out 

reason, then** 
God wills that they should perish — that is, as being 

no longer men, 
He turns them to destruction, that they may be born 

again. 

We bear two wallets, one upon our breast, one on 

our back; 
Our neighbours' faults — they're handy there to see — 

fill the front sack; 
Our own we store, well out of sight, within the 

hinder pack. 

"Big book, big ill" — the sentiment reflects old-world 

ideas, 
Perhaps our own. But what about Encyclopaedias? 

Water will hollow, drop by drop, the hardest rock — 

'tis said; 
Eternal cataracts wouldn't even dent a Know-All's 

head. 

**Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementit. God 
does not will to destroy a man until the man has, 
by sinning against it, quenched the light that is in 
him — the light that makes him man. The transi- 
tive form "dementat" lacks authority. Cp. Psalm 
XC. 3. 

Thirty-eight 



Horatiana 



Od. I. 2 

ENOUGH of snow and hailstones dire 
The Sire has scattered, and with i;ed 
Right hand has hurled his bolts of fire 
On sacred heights; then cowered in dread 

City and nations, lest the time 

When portents strange made Pyrrha plain, 
And Proteus bade his sea-herds climb 

High mountains, should return again: 

When in the elm-tops — roosting-place 
To doves familiar — in their haste 

Entangled, hung the fishy race, 
And scared hinds swam the watery waste. 

Tiber we saw, with fierce back-wash 

Of tawny waves on Tuscany's 
Banksides, upon his way to crash 

Kings' works, and Vesta's sanctuaries. 

Proclaiming vengeance for the fate 

Of Ilia, too-complaining still, 
He crossed his eastern marge in spate, 

Uxorious stream, despite Jove's will. 

Our youth, by parents' vices thinned, 
Shall hear of swords, that better far 

Had smote the Mede, by kin unkinned 
Whetted, alas! for impious war. 

What God should Rome invoke to stay 

The ruin of our empire's weal? 
What nrayer should sacred Virgins pray 

To Vesta, deaf to their appeal? 

To whom will Jove assign the part 
Of expiation? Come at length, 

With aureoled shoulders, thou, who art 
Augur of augurs, in thy strength, 

Forty 



Phoebus, we pray. Or, if it please 

Thee, smiling Erycina, come 
With Love and Laughter; or, if these 

Thy children, Mars, — the race of Rome— 

So long forgot, are still thy care, 
Quit war's too-wearying game, what tho' 

Thou lov'st shouts, helms, and fiery glare 
Of Moorish kern at blood-stained foe. 

Or if, transformed, thou art content, 
Maia's winged Son, to image now 

Young manhood, named, with thy consent, 
Caesar's avenger — O come thou! 

Slow to return to heaven, prolong 

Among Quirinus' folk thy stay; 
No breeze upbear thee, by the wrong 

We do provoked, too soon away. 

That men should call thee Chief and Sire — 
Choose that; with triumphs cheer thy heart; 

And let thy rule's avenging ire, 

Caesar, make Parthia's horsemen smart. 



Forty -one 



Od. I. 9 

SEE you how white Soracte's hill 
Stands in deep snow: how forests bow, 
Strained by their burden: how the chill 
Of frost has stayed the rivers' flow? 

Break up the cold; pile more and more 
Logs on the hearth; from your Sabine 

Jar's depths, O Thaliarchus, pour 

More generous draughts of ripe old wine. 

Leave to the Gods all else; when they 

Have lulled the storms whose battles thresh 

The ocean into boiling spray, 

Naught frets cypress and aged ash. 

Ask not the morrow's good or ill; 

Reckon it gain however chance 
May shape each day; scorn not, while still 

A boy, sweet loves; scorn not the dance. 

Life in its Spring, and crabbed eld 
Far off — that is the time; then hey 

For Park, Square, whispered concerts held 
At a set hour at close of day: 

For the sweet laugh whose soft alarm 
Tells in what nook the maid lies hid: 

For the love-token snatched from arm, 
Of fingers that but half-forbid. 



Forty -two 



Od. I. 11 



SEEK not to know — such search were sin — what 
term, Leuconoe, 
Of life the Gods, who rule our lives, have fixed for 

you and me, 
Nor try the tables that sum up Babel's astrology. 

'Twere better — how far better! — to endure the utter- 
most, 

Whether Jove grants more winters, or this brings a 
farewell frost, 

That breaks the strength of waves that lash the 
rock-bound Tuscan coast. 

Be wise; strain wines; curtail far hopes to fit short 

destiny; 
E'en while we speak time, grudging time, has fled; 

snatch eagerly 
Each day, and trust the morrow's grace as little as 

may be. 



Forty-three 



Od. I. 17 



LEAVING Lycaeus oft for sweet 
Lucretilis, swift Faunus fends 
Off rainy' winds and summer's heat 
Ever, and thus my goats befriends. 

They seek, as thro' safe woods they rove — 
These wives of a malodorous spouse — 

Arbutus lurking in the grove, 

And thyme, unscathed; my kidlings browse 

Fearless of Mars' wolves and green snakes, 
What time, my Tyndaris, you bring 

Your pipe that wakes the vales, and makes 
Ustica's smooth escarpment ring. 

Gods guard me; to the Gods are dear 

My Muse, my piety; the land's 
Honours — its outpoured wealth — shall here 

From horn benignant fill your hands. 

Here, in some far glen's sanctuary 

From Dog-Star's heat, to Teian strain 

You'll tell of chaste Penelope 
And Circe bright, striving amain 

For one man's love. Here 'neath the trees 
Shall you drink cups from harmless jars 

Of Lesbian; nor shall Semele's 
Thyoneus mix up brawls with Mars. 

Nor shall you fear the wantonness 

Of Cyrus, lest he rudely tear, 
Poor little innocent, your, dress, 

And chaplet clinging to your hair. 



Forty-four 



Od. I. 18 

SEE, Varus, that you plant no tree before the 
sacred vine 
About our Tibur's kindly soil, where Catilus of eld 
Founded his town, for Heaven has willed that all 
who hate good wine 
Should suffer, and not otherwise are gnawing cares 
dispelled. 

Who, after wine, on war's distress or poverty wastes 
breath? 
Is not his talk of Bacchus and of Venus' loveli- 
ness? 
And yet the fight, fought over cups by Centaurs to 
the death 
With Lapithae, bids none exceed the bounds of 
soberness. 

There's warning too in Euhius' wrath against the 
sots of Thrace, 
When drunkards make their lusts the law defining 
Wrong and Right. 
I'll not abuse, bright Bassareus, by tempting thee, 
thy grace, 
Nor drag the things, by leaves concealed as mys- 
teries, to light. 

Stay the fierce horns, the timbrels dear to Cybele, 
that lead 
Blind Love of Self — self-blinded self-idolatry — and 
Pride— 
The Vanity that all too high uplifts its empty head, 
And faithless Faith that publishes what glass it- 
self would hide. 



Forty-five 



Od. I. 21 

VOUNG maidens, sing Diana's might; 
Sing, boys, of Cynthius everyoung; 
Of Leto, too, the heart's delight 
Of Jove supreme, be anthems sung. 

Sing, maidens, how Diana loves 
Streams and the forest's leafery, 

Or of dark Erymanthus' groves, 

Or where green Cragus towers on high. 

Praise Tempe, boys, and Delos where 
Phoebus was born, with lay for lay; 

Sing how his quivered shoulders bear 
His brother's lyre, in twin display. 

From princely Caesar and our State, 
Moved by your prayer, he shall expel 

War, famine, plague — sad dooms of fate — 
To lands where Mede and Briton dwell. 



Forty-six 



Od. I. 22 

WHOSE life is whole and pure of sin, 
He needs no Moorish javelin, 
Fuscus, nor bow, nor quiver-load 
Of poisoned arrows for the road: 

Whether he wills to voyage o'er 
The boiling Syrtes, or explore 
Rude Caucasus', or tracts untrod, 
Washed by Hydaspes' storied flood. 

For in a Sabine wood one day 

I sang of Lalage; away 

Went all my cares; I wandered free; 

A wolf saw me, and fled from me, 

Nor harmed me — such a monster as 
Oak-groves of warlike Daunias 
Breed not, and Juba's land may nurse 
Lions, but rears not such a curse. 

Set me where some dead desert sees 
No tree refreshed by summer breeze — 
A quarter of the world that lies 
In mists beneath unkindly skies: 

Set me beneath the too near car 

Of Phoebus, where no dwellings are, 

Yet will I love my Lalage— 

Her sweet laugh, her sweet causene. 



Forty-seven 



Od. I. 30 

OF Cnidos and of Paphos Queen, 
From thy loved Cypros, Venus, come, 
And make the shrine, that Glycera's bene 
And incense offer thee, thy home. 

Bring too thy Godling of the heart, 

Graces ungirt, thy company 
Of Nymphs, and Youth, that lacks apart 

From thee all charm, and Mercury. 
* * * * 

Od. II. 6 

SEPTIMIUS, who with me would fare 
To Gades, or Cantabria yet 
Untamed, or the rude Syrtes, where 
The Moorish billows ever fret: 

Be Tibur, by an Argive guest 

Founded, the home of my old age — 

From war, from sea, from trails, a rest, 
After life's weary pilgrimage. 

But, if barred thence by fate accurst, 
I'll seek Galaesus, pleasant aye 

To skin-clad sheep, and fields that erst 
Owned Dorian Phalanthus' sway. 

That nook of all earth's nooks for me 
Has charms, where with Hymettus vies 

The honey, and each olive tree 

From green Venafrum claims the prize. 

Jove grants a lingering springtime there, 
And winters mild; there Aulon, host 

Of fruitful Bacchus, has small care 
Of what Falernian grapes may boast. 

That spot, those happy hills, desire 

Our presence; there shall you commend, 

With friendship's tear, beside his pyre, 
The ashes of your poet-friend. 

Forty-eight 



Od. II. 8 



HAD punishment in any wyse, 
Barine, judged your perjuries: 
Had one black tooth or fingernail 
Disfigured you by just entail, 

I'd trust you; but you bind upon 
Your faithless head vows, and anon 
Step forth more radiant for your pains, 
The common darling of our swains. 

You cheat — and profit by each lie — 
Your mother's dust, the vasty sky, 
Night's silent stars, the Gods, whose breath 
Is life beyond the chill of death. 

Venus herself laughs at all this; 
The simple Nymphs laugh too, ywis, 
And Cupid fierce, on blood-stained stone, 
Whetting his fire-darts, one by one. 

Aye, and to you too, as they grow 
Up, all our lads as bondslaves bow; 
And earlier suitors, threat, but come 
Back to their impious lady's home. 

Mothers of striplings fear your smiles; 
Thrifty old fathers dread your wiles; 
And newly wed brides sadly say, 
"Her breath will keep our grooms away." 



Forty-nine 



Od. II. 9 

NOT always fall the clouds in rain 
On roughened fields; not without end 
Do tempests vex the Caspian main 
With gusts; nor, Valgius, my friend, 

The whole year round stands motionless 
Ice on Armenian plains, nor groan 

Garganus' oaks beneath the stress 
Of northern blasts that strip the roan. 

But you with dirges day and night 
Harp on lost Mystes; Vesper's rise 

Checks not your love-plaints, nor his flight 
From the swift sun, when night-time dies. 

And yet thrice-aged Nestor stayed 
His tears for loved Antilochus; 

Parents and Phrygian sisters made 
Not endless moan for Troilus, 

Their stripling lad; cease, cease at length, 
Your weak complaints, and rather hymn 

Augustus Caesar — how his strength 
Has won fresh trophies — how to him 

Frost-bound Niphates bows, and how 
The Parthian stream, with lowered pride, 

Rolls smaller floods, and, lessoned now, 
Within strait bounds Geloni ride. 



Fifty 



Od. II. 10 



LICINIUS, would you live aright, 
Tempt not the high seas evermore, 
Nor, fearing tempests, in your fright 
Too closely hug the dangerous shore. 

Who loves the golden mean is free 

And safe from grime — the grime a house 

Harbours in eld; his modesty 
Earns not the envy mansions rouse. 

The mighty pine is oftenest 

Storm-tossed; the higher a turret's height, 
The worse its fall; it is its crest, 

The mountain's top, that lightnings smite. 

A well-schooled heart, when things look black, 
Hopes for a change: when all seems gay, 

Fears change. Jove brings rude winters back; 
Aye, but he also ends their stay. 

Bad luck today? Well, but how long — 

How many "days — will it be so? 
Phoebus awakes .his Muse to song 

At times, nor always bends his bow. 

In times of straitness manifest 

A hero's heart; shrink not, nor quail; 

Yet take in sail — safety is best — 
Before too favouring a gale. 



Fifty -one 



Od. II. 16 



REST is the sailor's prayer — the boon 
He craves, caught on the Aegean sea, 
Soon as dark clouds have hid the moon, 
And stars shine all uncertainly. 

For rest prays Thrace, distract with war; 

For rest the quivered Parthians cry; 
For rest — for what nor purple, nor 

Rubies, nor gold, Grosphus, can buy. 

Nor wealth, nor lictor's axe, can rout 

The heart's tumultuous agonies, 
Nor chase the cares that flit about 

The fretted roofs of palaces. 

He lives on little well, whose sire's 

Saltcellar makes his scant board bright: 

Whose slumbers light nor base desires 
Of gain, nor fears disturb at night. 

Why many aims with such brief span 

Of strength? Why, bent on change, should we 
Seek other climes? An exiled man 

Quits home; himself he cannot flee. 

Care, morbid care, climbs bronze-beaked prows; 

Horsed squadrons leave it not behind, 
Swifter than stags; nor swifter blows 

The cloud-compelling South East wind. 

Cheerful to face what is, be not 

Careful at heart of what shall be. 
With calm smile temper a hard lot; 

There's no all-round felicity. 

Fifty-two 



Untimely great Achilles died; 

Of eld Tithonus dwined away; 
And that, which Fortune has denied 

To you, may come to me some day. 

Round you a hundred herds of kine 

Sicilian low; to you a mare 
Fit for the race-course neighs, and fine 

The twice-dyed purple wools you wear, 

Of Tyrian hues. A small estate: 

A spirit of Hellene poetry, 
Slender, to me an honest Fate 

Has given, and scorn of jealousy. 



Fifty-three 



Od. III. 2 

TOUGHENED by war let every lad 
Learn to bear hardness, and be glad; 
As horseman let him wield a spear 
Whose thrust shall be the Parthians fear. 

Out in the air, at danger's call, 
His life be lived; from enemy wall 
Let warring tyrant's consort— aye, _ 
And daughter grown, see him, and sigh, 

Lest her dear prince, untrained to fight, 
Should dare this lion's dangerous might, 
That, fired by battle-rage, for aye 
Ramps thro' the fiercest of the fray. 

To die for Homeland is a sweet 
And gracious thing; on flying feet 
Death presses hard, nor spares to smite 
Poltroons' weak knees and backs affright. 

Virtue, secure from shameful rout, 
With honours all-unstained shines out; 
Nor takes, nor drops, authority 
To suit the crowd's oft-changing cry. 

Opening to deathless souls the skies, 
Virtue forbidden pathways tries; 
Scorning dank earth, and gatherings 
Of mobs, she mounts on soaring wings. 

A faith that keeps a secret hid 
Claims sure reward; I shall forbid 
A man, who blabs one mystery 
Of Ceres' rites, to lodge with me, 

Or board my skiff. Saints have been sent 
With sinners to one banishment 
By slighted Jove; Vengeance is halt, 
But, following, rarely makes a fault. 

Fifty-four 



Od. III. 13 



FOUNT of Bandusia, more clear 
Than crystal, worthy flowers and wine, 
Tomorrow shall a kid be thine 
Upon whose front young horns appear, 

That threat love-battles presently. 

In vain they threat, for with red blood 

This scion of a lustful brood 
Shall stain thy stream's fresh purity. 

The flaming Dog-Star's spell of heat 

Touches thee not; to weary ox, 

Tired of the plough, and wandering flocks, 
Thou art refreshment cool and sweet. 

Thou shalt be of the founts men call 

Famous, when of the oak I tell 

That crowns the hollow rocks, whence well 
Thy babbling waters to their fall. 



Fifty --five.. 



Od. III. 18 

WOOER of flying Nymphs, whene'er, 
My homestead's sunny fields among, 
You come and go, be debonair, 

Faunus, nor do my nurslings wrong, 

If, as your due, a kidling dies: 

If filled your bowl, to Venus dear, 

With wine: if from your altar rise 
Abundant odours — year by year. 

The cattle in the pastures play, 

What time December's Nones for you 

Return, and all make holiday, 

Village and kine — one merry crew. 

A wolf roams 'mid the lambs; they heed 
Him not; for you the woodland tree 

Scatters its leaves; the digger freed 
Thrice stamps on hated earth his glee. 



Fifty-six 



Od. III. 22 

VIRGIN, who wear'st a threefold form of three- 
fold majesty, 
Warden of woods and hills, who, as invoked with 

threefold cry, 
Dost hear, and save from death, young wives in 
childbirth's agony, 

Thine be the pine that overhangs my villa, so that I, 
At each year's end, may offer it, in cheerful fealty, 
The blood of a young boar that plans the stroke 
that strikes awry. 



Fifty-seven 



Od. III. 23 



IF upturned hands to heaven you lift 
When the new moon is born, 
And charm your Lares with a gift 

Of incense, and new corn, 
And a fat swine, then yours shall be 
A fair lot, rustic Phidyle. 

Your fruitful vine shall mock the pest 

Of Afric's windy heat; 
No blighting mildew shall infest 

Your crops; your nurslings sweet 
Shall brave the sickly months, nor fear 
The menace of the autumnal year. 

The victim which, doomed to pay vows, 
'Mid oaks and holm-oaks feeds 

On snowy Algidus, or grows 
Fat upon Alban meads, 

Shall with its neck's blood stain one day 

The axes which Rome's pontiffs sway. 

It is not laid on you to press, 

By costly sacrifice 
Of many sheep, prayer and address 

On your small deities; 
It's yours to crown them quietly 
With myrtle frail and rosemary. 

If pure your hand, when it is laid 

The altar's face upon, 
Not by a costly victim made 

More coaxing, it has won 
Your House-Gods' grace by the appeal 
Of crackling salt and pious meal. 



Fifty-eight 



Od. III. 26 

TIME was when, as a Cupid's knight, 
I fought, not all ingloriously, 
Love's battles; now my panoply — 
Armour and lyre, too tired to fight — 

I'll hang upon this temple-wall, 
That on her left guards Venus; let 
Rope-torches, crowbars, bows, that threat 

Closed doors, hang by them, one and all. 

Goddess, who rulest Cyprus blest, 
And, from Sithonian snow-storms free, 
Memphis, with uplift whip, prithee, 

Touch, just for once, proud Chloe's breast. 



Fifty-nine 



<£ 



v, 



Od. IV. 12 

BREEZES from Thrace, that come with Spring 
To fill our sails, now calm the waves; 
Unfed by snows, no longer raves 
The stream; frost is no longer king. 

Now nests the unhappy bird that must 

For ever mourn Itys — a shame 

Eternal, she, to Cecrops' name, 
Whose crime avenged Kings' barbarous lust. 

Our fatlings' warders sing their loves 
To Pan-pipe's music on green swards, 
And gladden him whose favour guards 

Arcadia's flocks, and dark hill-groves. 

Virgil, the days are thirsty days, 

But, if you want Calenian, then, 

As client of young noblemen, 
Bring with you nard; he drinks who pays. 

A box will draw a cask, my friend, 

Now in Sulpician stores laid up; 

There's hope, fresh hope, in every cup, 
And of all bitter cares an end. 

If on these joys you're keen, then come 
Quick with the stuff; I don't incline 
To soak you gratis with my wine, 

As might a rich man in full home. 

Quick, quit your usury. Time is fleet. 
Think, while you may, of funeral flames, 
And blend brief folly with your aims; 

Folly, in folly's hour, is sweet. 



Sixty 






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